


Thoughts of a Day Gone Past

by fadedhues



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, i just rated this mature to be on the safe side, limbo fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadedhues/pseuds/fadedhues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames can’t remember a time when he didn’t live in the grand house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thoughts of a Day Gone Past

**Author's Note:**

> I am actually really in love with this drabble, which never happens. I like this more than most things I've written.

Eames can’t remember a time when he didn’t live in the grand house; all he can remember are days of brunet men gasping between his sheets (always pale, always brown-haired-brown-eyed, always lanky—but there was something missing, something from the eyes and the, and the—there, the thought’s lost, and Eames can’t be bothered to chase after it) and working as an artist and his routine, everyday, of eating and painting and drinking tea and painting.

This routine is one that he’s had for years, years and years and years, and he doesn’t know how many or how old he is, he just measures his age by how grey his hair is; how much his hands shake when he paints now.

He can’t really be bothered to figure it out (it was all he used to think about, but then the days seemed to stretch and curl around him, and he grew into it, this new life, this—this—there, he’s lost his thought again).

He has a cat, a sleek, black creature, whose name tag reads  _Arthur_. (There it is again, that niggling feeling in the back of his head, and Eames tries to seize it, like he’s trying to catch a nimble butterfly, but the thought slips deftly between his fingers, and oh, Eames just wants to paint now, because he’s sad, he’s sad and he doesn’t know why.)

Beside his bed, there’s a small poker chip, a nondescript, white thing, and Eames has a feeling of  _wrong_  every time he looks at it, but he’s been chasing that thought for a while now, and he’s sad and tired and doesn’t know why.

Every so often, when Eames has really bad days, he’ll close his eyes and just let himself blindly paint, and he opens them to a beach (he can only remember one beach, a very small memory from a long time ago; maybe back from when he had been a child.  _Wrong_ , he thinks, but he’s tired of trying to remember, so tired).

Eames finds a box in a drawer one day, shoved underneath his socks and paisley scarves (there it is again, that niggling feeling—but this one is softer, a mocking, teasing feeling, one that spreads warmth throughout Eames’ body, but he doesn’t  _know why_ ). The box only has a sea shell and a note, a slip of paper that says,  _Dream a little bigger, darling_ , and Eames closes his eyes and whispers the words and feels his body react, his blood pumping and breath quickening and he doesn’t know why.

Eames is sick of not knowing, of not remembering, and just because he’s given up trying doesn’t mean that he doesn’t still want to know.

Then one day, one day when Eames’ hair has fully greyed and his hand shakes so much that he can’t paint, a knock sounds at his door, and Eames thinks,  _That’s odd_ , but he answers it, of course.

There’s a beautiful man standing at his door, and Eames realizes what all those boys in his bed were missing, that sharp smile and bright eyes and razorblade edges.

“Oh,” he says.


End file.
